


100 Days of Summer

by TheResurrectionist



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Aliens/Monsters, Apocalypse, Batfamily Feels, Blood and Gore, Character Death, Gen, Inspired by a Quiet Place, Self-Sacrifice, Unconventional Format, but you definitely don't need to see that for this to HURT, mentions of superbat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 12:27:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14425392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheResurrectionist/pseuds/TheResurrectionist
Summary: A condensed, batfamily re-write ofA Quiet Place.





	100 Days of Summer

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I blame Batwayneman. And myself. Mostly myself.

  ** _Day 1_**

Bruce doesn’t look from the monitors as Dick enters the cave, captivated by the video on one of the screens. He leans over the man’s shoulder, watching the replay.

“What the hell is that?”

“Aliens,” Bruce murmurs, looping the video with a keystroke. “There was a meteor impact in upstate New York.”

Dick blinks as Diana is thrown back by a spiked limb in the video, slamming into a building. There’s blood across her mouth; he realizes, frozen above Bruce’s shoulder, that he’s never seen her bleed before.

“I need to be there.”

Dick glances at Bruce’s chest, where he knows a line of fresh stitches is the only thing holding his guts in.

“You’re sidelined. You heard Alfred. No movement for at least a week.”

On the screen, Clark’s head snaps backwards. He recovers quickly, throwing a super-powered punch at the alien, but it seems to have no effect.

“We’ll see,” Bruce says, and that’s a clear enough dismissal.

* * *

  ** _Day 2_**

“.....need you to find her.”

Dick pauses at the entrance to the cave. Below him, he can hear a soft moan, and then the shifting of fabric. When he finally dares to glance over the edge, Bruce has a bloodied Clark on one of the cots, gripping his hand.

“You need sunlamps--” Bruce says, ignoring Clark’s protests. “ _Kal_.”

“I have to zeta back soon…” the Kryptonian clenches his fists, pushing away Bruce and sitting up. “I can’t fly back there. She isn’t picking up. I need to know she’s okay. _Please_.”

“Alright. Alright.” Bruce says, brushing Clark’s hair back in a strangely affectionate gesture. “I’ll fuel the plane. I’ll find her.”

They’re silent for a long moment. Clark opens his mouth, then closes it. Tries again:

“Bruce, if I don’t make it--”

Dick ducks out before they can say their goodbyes, his cheeks burning.  

* * *

  ** _Day 3_**

“...I’m not getting anything out of New York. Can you try the scanner for the borough again, Alfred? Something must be wrong on my end.”

Bruce’s jaw is clenched, the only sign of uncertainty Dick can see. His hands are relaxed around the controls of the Batwing, guiding them into a smooth dive.

Kansas farmland blurs into green through the windows of the plane, outlined in the fading sun.

“Certainly.” Alfred replies. Above the center console, the comm video link fuzzes briefly. When the static clears, the butler is still tapping on the keyboard. “Nothing, I’m afraid. Would you like me to try and raise Master Kent again, sir?”

The wheels of the Batwing hit the ground, gliding into an effortless landing.

“No,” Bruce murmurs, shutting off the engine as they slide to a stop. “He’s busy. Martha is a priority. We’ll get to her first.”

“Excellent.” Alfred says, but there’s a tension in his shoulders Dick has never seen before. “I’ll stay on the comms.”

Bruce nods once, shutting off the link with a twist of a button. He turns around in the pilot’s seat, his expression blank.

“Jason and Dick with me,” he says, unbuckling the harness in short, efficient movements. “Tim, Damian, I want you to wait here until we’ve got Mrs. Kent.”

At Damian’s noise of protest, he puts up a hand. “That’s an _order_. You don’t leave the plane for any reason. Understood?”

Jason is unholstering his guns, already halfway out of the jump seat. Dick spares a quick, sympathetic look for Tim and follows suit.

Bruce steps off into the grass, a pair of batarangs in either hand. He moves easily, like he doesn’t have 27 stitches across his stomach.

The farmhouse is quiet, save for the soft wind blowing through the grass, catching on the small windchimes on the porch. Bruce climbs the steps quickly, knocking once on the door. When there isn’t a response, he pushes it open, signalling once.

Jason nods him on, covering their backs. Dick follows Bruce inside, frowning as the smell of decay hits his nose. He chokes on the feeling of day-old blood, breathing through his mouth.

Bruce steps into the living room, his back against the foyer wall. He clears the hallway, side stepping across the hardwood. With a nod, he gestures for them to follow into the next room.

In the kitchen, the back door is wide open, swinging on its hinges. Jason catches his eye as they both clear the pantry, raising an eyebrow. _What do you think?_

_Bad,_ Dick says with a quirk of his lips. _No clue._

They turn back into the kitchen together, waiting for Bruce’s command to start on the stairs. Instead, Bruce is frozen by the back porch, his hand braced against the frame of the door.  

The smell of death and blood is stronger there. Dick covers his nose with a sleeve, as Jason does the same to his left. At their feet, he can see trails of blood and gore against the hardwood, trailing towards---

“Don’t look.” Bruce says, just above a whisper. He turns away from the remains of Ma Kent and pushes them towards the living room. His face is a blank mask. “Get out of here.”

Jason backs them up as far as the kitchen, pressing Dick against the wall as they catch their breath. He takes out his escrima sticks, lighting them; they buzz softly in his hands, blue light dancing between the tips.

_“--give it_ back _\--”_ he hears Damian cry in the distance, followed by Tim’s laughter. As usual, they hadn’t listened to Bruce’s order. _“Drake_!”

In the doorway, Bruce has his comm out, a hand to his forehead.

“Clark.” he says, releasing the button. “Clark, come in.”

The wind picks up, cutting him off. A second set of chimes by the back door jingle loudly. Bruce flinches, pressing the comm button again.

“ _Clark_.”

In the distance, the Kent’s field of corn splits. Dick blinks as something darts out between the stalks, scuttling along the grass.

_Spiked limbs,_ he thinks, as it moves towards them. _New York. Aliens._

“ _Bruce!”_

Bruce drops the comm, his eyes going wide. Jason raises his pistol, sighting on the alien as the distance between them shrinks.

The wind stalls, silencing the chimes. The creature freezes in the middle of the lawn, its head jerking around. Bruce holds up a hand, watching it intensely.

The breeze picks up again, sending the wind chimes into motion. The creature’s head jerks up; it resumes its earlier path, snarling.

Bruce reaches up, stilling the chimes just in time. It pauses at the foot of the stairs, flinching. Sightless eyes bore into his, pink and pulsing.

_What the fuck..._

A moment later, it retreats, hesitant. They watch the creature leave in silence, weapons still pointed at its back.

“Sound,” Bruce says quietly, when it’s far enough away. It’s a realization. “They’re attracted to….”

“ _DRAKE_!”

The creature turns direction mid-stride, bolting towards the sound of Damian’s voice.

Bruce goes ashen, leaping off the porch in a dead sprint.

“We need to go-- _now_.” Jason tugs on his wrist, dragging him down the steps. Dick stumbles after him, his heart in his throat.

Before they make it two steps off the porch, the sound of tearing flesh rips through the air. Damian’s cries turn into a guttural groan, then--nothing.

When they turn the corner, Bruce has a hand over Tim’s mouth, stock-still against the house’s siding. The grass in front of them is dotted with blood and flesh, and Dick has to bite down _hard_ to keep from making a sound.

In front of them, the creature lets out a snarl, its head jerking around. A batarang is lodged in its neck, embedded in what looks like exoskeletal armor.

Tim trembles in Bruce’s grip. Jason’s hand finds his shoulder, squeezing hard enough to break bone. He’s silent as the creature circled the lawn, not even daring to breathe.

After a long moment, it drifts back towards the corn field, disappearing into the stalks. Tim falls to his knees, retching into the dirt.

Behind him, Bruce has the comm by his lips. He presses down on the button, then seems to change his mind.

_No noise,_ he signs to them, in short, jerky motions. His hands are trembling slightly. _No more noise._

* * *

**_Day 3_ **

The creature doesn’t return, but Dick can hear it, faintly, in the distance.

The first night, alone in the farmhouse, he and Jason take turns watching the exits, weapons in hand. Neither of them sleep.

Bruce keeps vigil outside, crouched in the cover of the Batwing, feet from the bloodstained patch of grass. When dawn comes, he’s still there, head bowed against the sunlight.

_Two more in the area,_ he signs when he comes inside, refusing to elaborate. _Be careful._

That night, Dick hears screams across the farmland. For a horrible moment, he’s thankful they’re not nearby.

* * *

  ** _Day 4_**

Alfred’s comm goes silent the next morning.

Bruce locks himself in Clark’s old room and doesn’t emerge for two days. Tim is glassy-eyed in Ma Kent’s recliner, wearing the same clothes, still splattered with Damian’s blood.

_It’s okay,_ Dick signs to him, knowing Bruce taught the younger Robin ASL. They’d all learned, once upon a time, though only Bruce was fluent. _You’re okay._

Tim turns away, ignoring him.

* * *

  ** _Day 6_**

There’s nothing left of Damian to bury. It’s almost worse, that way.

* * *

  ** _Day 7_**

Jason drops a hammer in the kitchen, and Bruce’s theory is backed up by empirical evidence.

(they hide together under the sink as the three creatures circle the house, sniffing for the slightest sound, until the grip Jason has around his wrist turns bruising and it’s still an hour after that before they can open the cabinet)

Dick puts blankets across the kitchen floor when he can breathe again, ignoring the fresh claw marks in the wood.

* * *

  ** _Day 8_**

They spend the day stockpiling food and supplies in the basement, carefully shifting mattresses down the stairs. Jason marks the non-creaky steps with old paint as Bruce wires a solar panel together, throwing himself--as usual--head-first into his work.

Tim finally washes Damian’s blood off in the sink, leaving red drops on the floor.

* * *

  ** _Day 10_**

Jason leaves, gun in hand, to search the nearest farmhouse. Dick takes down the wind chimes and shutters while he’s gone, wrapping them in towels.

Bruce removes the batteries from their phones, carefully extracting the motherboards. He signs something about a communication device and disappears into Clark’s room.

Tim sulks in the basement, curled up against the wall. He ignores Dick’s calls for lunch. When Jason returns that evening, he still hasn’t eaten.

* * *

  ** _Day 28_**

Digging is too loud, even done slowly with a hand shovel. They bury Ma Kent in a shallow ditch near the farmhouse, laying dozens of rocks across her grave, until she’s concealed from the elements.

He hopes Clark would have approved.

* * *

  ** _Day 30_**

He sits with her, sometimes, remembering the times they’d spent here--weekends and summer breaks--and tries to forget that there is nothing beside him but bones and rock.

* * *

  ** _Day 36_**

Clark is still missing.

When Bruce does fall asleep, it’s with the comm in his hand, curled up on the thinnest mattress. He doesn’t rest for more than four hours--if what he does could even be called _rest._

(when he disappears, it’s into Clark’s room, and Dick bites his tongue, knowing this is greater than heartbreak over a friend)

He takes down the Kents’ photos one morning, carefully removing the nails and wrapping the frames. When Jason asks, he signs smoothly.

_Too much noise._

* * *

  ** _Day 65_**

Bruce hikes to Lawrence, leaving them alone for a week. When he’s gone, Tim’s mood lifts. He helps Dick soundproof the basement, and even plays a half-hearted game of UNO with Jason.

When Bruce comes back, his face is tight, his clothes torn. He has claw marks across his shoulders, still weeping blood days later. He doesn’t speak about what he’s seen. There’s a half-haunted look in his eyes.

_All gone,_ he signs as Dick stitches him up, fumbling the motion with one hand. _Gone._

For a moment, his eyes lose focus; Jason steadies him, but the moment of weakness is gone as quickly as it came.

Bruce sighs, signing.

_Sorry._

* * *

  ** _Day 70_**

The electricity shuts off.

Dick wonders briefly about nuclear power plants overheating, about electrical grids imploding and gas lines rupturing, but doesn’t dare ask Bruce.

Tim signs a few words to him as they pick peas. His eyes are red-rimmed; he still ducks Bruce’s gaze like it burns him.

They shell together in silence, and for once, it doesn’t feel unwelcome.

* * *

  ** _Day 78_**

The solar generator Bruce built powers on, just in time for the first frost of the season.

Dick enjoys the hot water until the next morning, when he sees unfamiliar prints in the thin snow, inches from the window.

* * *

  ** _Day 83_**

_Do you think we’ll leave,_ he signs to Jason one night, when they finally break into Pa Kent’s whiskey and get horribly, quietly drunk together on Tim’s mattress.

Jason takes another swig, careful that the liquid doesn’t slosh in the bottle. He sets it down on the rag they’re using as a coaster.

_and go where?_ he signs, shaking his head.

* * *

  ** _Day 86_**

Bruce has them run the stairs and landings without making noise. It’s harder than it looks, but that’s the point.

Tim stumbles halfway through the lesson, slamming his shin into the wood. He presses his lips together before noise can escape, face twisting against the pain.

They wait, in unison, to see if the noise is loud enough to attract the creatures. In the distance, the sound of clicking grows nearer; after a long, drawn-out moment, it fades back into the corn fields.

_Good,_ Bruce signs, unfazed. _Again._

* * *

  ** _Day 90_**

_He hates me,_ Tim signs to him in the dark, where the only indication of his presence is the feeling of the mattress dipping next to him.

The flashlight is on low between them, just enough to see their hands.

_He wants me dead,_ he signs, slowly, like he’s sure of it.

_Shut up,_ Dick signs at him. When Tim doesn’t respond, he does the sign over and over again, until his hands are in the boy’s face and he can’t look away. _Shutupshutupshutupshutup_

_My fault,_ Tim signs, batting his hands away, and rolls over. The flashlight clicks off, plunging them into darkness.

(he’s never wanted to scream more in his life than in that moment, but he bites down, until it burns in his chest and his throat aches with all the noise he cannot, cannot make)

* * *

  ** _Day 92_**

He tries to remember Bruce’s voice. Tries to attach the deep tones and warmth to the cold man who sleeps beside him, and cannot.

He remembers being held as a child in his arms, and feeling the rumble of Bruce’s voice through his chest. The soft tenor as he sang Damian to sleep, years ago, when he thought no one would hear him.

Silence is easy, Dick finds; listening is the hard part.

* * *

  ** _Day 93_**

_I have more fish,_ Jason signs from the doorway, a basket at his feet. He raises an eyebrow, tilting his head towards the porch. _Out there again?_

Dick shrugs, both of them knowing the answer. In his hands, the trout Tim had caught earlier was being painstakingly deboned, each individual bone being pulled carefully from the flesh. He sets it aside on a nearby towel, drying his hands. _You okay?_ he signs back.

_B-R-U-C-E is crazy,_ Jason signs, rolling his eyes. _Still calling him_.

Dick nods, picturing the tiny comm. The only time he sees it is when it’s charging--hooked up to the solar panel Bruce had cobbled together. There hadn’t been a signal, and yet…

_Let him be,_ Dick signs, shrugging again. He takes the basket and puts the fish in the sink, sighing. _T-I-M?_

_Downstairs,_ Jason signs. _Again_.

Dick nods, grabbing another fish. He slices into it, careful not to nick his fingers. _Bruce?_ he mouths.

Jason narrows his eyes. _Doesn’t want to talk._

Dick huffs out a breath, the closest he can come to a laugh.

* * *

  ** _Day 96_**

_My fault,_ Tim signs to him one evening. At first, Dick doesn’t know what he means. He signs a question back, confused.

_My fault,_ Tim signs again. _D-A-M-I-A-N._ His hands shake a little on the last letter.

_No,_ Dick signs back, but it’s cut off as he drags Tim into a hug. He squeezes him tight, until they can both barely breathe. _No one’s fault,_ he signs when Tim pushes away. He repeats it, making sure it was seen. _No one’s._

_Okay,_ Tim signs, a hesitant knocking motion by his ear. _Okay._

* * *

  ** _Day 97_**

_Talk to T-I-M,_ Dick signs at Bruce when he comes downstairs. He makes sure the other man is watching, repeating the sign. _Understand?_

Bruce exhales softly, what passes for a snort these days, but there’s something dark in his eyes.

(that night, he walks past the basement and sees them hunched together on the mattress, Bruce signing _I love you_ over and over again in front of Tim, and neither of them make a sound)

* * *

  ** _Day 98_**

_I have a plan,_ Bruce signs to them over breakfast.

Jason continues eating. Tim is wide-eyed next to him, waiting. Dick sets his fish down, watching Bruce carefully.

_Listen to me,_ Bruce frames his head with either hand, holding the sign until everyone is paying attention. _The monsters. I can kill them._

_Good,_ Jason signs, a hint of excitement in his movements. _Now?_

_Tonight._

Tim is frozen in his seat, staring blankly at the table. Dick nudges him, sending a concerned look.

_G-O-T-H-A-M?_ He signs to Bruce, who shakes his head.

_Camp. Near Topeka. Survivors there._

Tim nods slowly, thinking it over. It’s the most words they’ve exchanged in a year. Dick is floored. _How?_

_Machine,_ Bruce says, fumbling over a more technical combination of signs Dick doesn’t quite catch. _Then we’ll go._

* * *

They hang wire painstakingly around the Kent Farm, hooked to something Bruce won’t explain. There’s speakers and amplifiers, thrown together from the appliances Dick hasn’t seen since they’d first arrived.

As the sun starts to set, Bruce has them put supplies together, loading them into the back of the Batwing. He and Jason wrap bedding around most of it, sharing a confused look as they pack the plane.

_Too loud,_ Jason signs. Dick nods, still not understanding.

* * *

_It hurts them,_ Bruce signs, holding up the remains of the comm, then setting it down again on the porch railing. _They need to be close. We won’t have much time._

Dick glances at the comm’s guts, curious. _And we fly away?_

Bruce nods. _You fly._

Dick frowns, looking over to the Batwing. _You?_

_You,_ Bruce signs, and there’s no room for argument. _Wait for my signal._

Dick’s heart sinks in his chest. His hands are heavier than lead; he raises them slowly, signing painfully. _You?_

_Don’t worry,_ Bruce signs, his hands rising and falling easily. _Right behind you._

* * *

In the Batwing, Dick holds the controls gingerly. Jason and Tim are watching him, confused why Bruce isn’t in the pilot’s seat, but they say nothing. He leaves the passenger door open slightly, watching the porch.

Bruce steps down into the evening sun; the beard he’d grown seems so out of place, Dick has to blink. He smiles at them, the remote grasped firmly in one hand.

_Engine,_ he signs to Dick. _Now._

He twists the key, jamming down on the brake. His heart lurches as the plane rumbles to life, knowing it was far too loud.

Jason’s eyes meet his in the mirror, full of panic.

The startup sequence takes at least twenty seconds. Dick turns back toward Bruce, adrenaline racing through his veins. _They’ll hear us._

But Bruce isn’t looking at him. He’s turned to face the corn field, shoulders squared. In the distance, Dick can see the way the corn bends and snaps as the creatures tear through it. The sequence is still loading as the creatures leap from the corn, sprinting towards them.

Dick clenches his hands around the controls and prays fiercely, wondering if this is really it, if this is what--

“ _Hey! Assholes!”_

The sound of Bruce’s voice--rough with disuse, cracking on the last word--is enough to force his eyes open. Twenty feet away, the creatures change direction, heads jerking towards the new sound.

_Louder than the engine,_ Dick thinks, as Bruce waves his hands and taunts the creatures.

“Yeah, I’m talking to you!” Bruce shouts, a booming sound that echoes off the side of the house. He has his thumb on the comm. “ _Dick! Now!”_

For a moment, their gazes connect over the heads of the creatures, time slowing down. Bruce presses the comm button just as the piloting sequence beeps.

A piercing frequency fills the yard as Dick jams his foot on the gas, the Batwing lurching forward. Behind him, Tim and Jason are banging on the window. He closes the passenger door with a flick of a switch, throat burning.

They’re in the air a few seconds later. Beneath them, Bruce goes down to one knee as a creature gores him in the side, still shouting. It’s turned into a wordless scream now. He’s swallowed by their writhing bodies a moment later.

Dick tastes bile and looks away, steadying his hands on the controls.

The frequency rings out for miles, thanks to the speakers they’d hung. When he looks back, the creatures are motionless on the grass, smeared with the blood from their kill.

“We have to--we have to go _back--_ ” Tim is saying, his voice cracking. There are tears in his eyes; he’s pressed against the glass, watching the Kent farm disappear. “He might still be--”

“Who the fuck are you kidding,” Jason growls, and the sound of his voice nearly has him jumping. “He’s dead. He was never planning on getting out of there--”

He punches the empty passenger seat. Dick takes a breath, reminding himself that he holds their lives in between his hands--literally.

“Topeka.” he says. “He wanted us to go there. So we go there.”

“Are you _serious_?”

“You want to turn around?” Dick asks, softly. Jason glances away, jaw clenching. He looks so much like Bruce for a second, it’s almost painful.

“We’ll find Clark.” Tim says. “It’s what he would have wanted.”

Dick punches in the coordinates on the scanner, pressing _enter._ Next to him, Jason is wiping his eyes discreetly.

“Topeka it is.”

  


THE END

 


End file.
